Posted 8/14/2014
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This is a work of fiction, based on the book series by J.K. Rowling. Neither do I claim ownership nor do I intend to.
Chapter Forty-Eight - New Year's
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Night had settled – a cold night, to be sure. They had watched the fireworks over the city through the windows of the drawing room, the Weasleys huddled in a corner with the eldest supported by the twins. They were healing decently, from what Daphne had heard, but it would still take some time until they could finally be sent away again.
The twins had taken over caring for their brother with Charlie Weasley sleeping on the first floor and the twins on the second. While Daphne didn't mind the roguish dragon handler, the pests she had gone to school with were a completely different matter. They were just... too much. She privately longed for the days she had to put up with only one idiotic redhead and considered it luck that they were spending so much time away from her, but it wasn't nearly enough for her liking. Every time she met either twin, she felt them watching her carefully. If she had to guess their younger brother had talked to them, poisoned their minds with lies and half-truths about her.
Granger and Weasley – the youngest of the brothers, if she remembered correctly, but it was difficult to remember every one of that brood, not that Ginny Weasley was that easy to recognize as a girl most of the time – had taken to split their time between visits and talks with the newcomers and continuing their daily regimen. Day in day out, they seemed to work on their magic, in both senses of the word. Daphne both waited for the day and dreaded it when they would finally finish their stupid game and just jump each other and into a bed together. True, Daphne didn't know what either saw in the other, but their behaviour got on her nerves. Had she really thought Draco and Pansy had been bad? She had been wrong, then. Granger and Weasley were always just this one step away from just going through with it – something his brothers had been delighted to comment on, but unfortunately, it hadn't made any difference. And Daphne didn't like the charged atmosphere around her one bit. At least Pansy and Draco had only kissed occasionally and then returned to acting mature once more. Granted, acting mature was not something Weasley would ever be able to, Daphne guessed, but Granger at least could have put a stop to it. But no, instead, they continued their stupid dance around each other, sending covert looks whenever they thought the other didn't notice. Maybe Harry had been right, maybe they had to sort it out themselves. In any case, from what Daphne could see, he didn't put a stop to it. Maybe he was just too tired of it to intervene. Or perhaps he didn't mind it that much. Maybe he had some money riding on his friends' relationship.
Or maybe the last few days were harder on him than on the other occupants of the house, and he was too busy worrying about other matters. Harry and she had continued their forays into the hidden library, yes, and they had even squeezed a duel practice in, but he seemed oddly distracted. He had taken the lead rather admirably and had become the de-facto leader in the house despite being the youngest, but still something was going on with him that she didn't know. If she had to guess – and she had confidence she knew him well enough to guess right – then he was planning another of his attacks. It made sense, as far as she could see, and explained the talks he had had with Granger away from the others' hearing. It had worked in the past, so why not in the future? On the other hand, it seemed as if his enemies hadn't learned their lesson yet, so whether yet another attack would show more promise was questionable.
The attacks were a mystery to her. Macnair had died, she had known as much. But he had been killed without leaving evidence, from what the Weasleys had said. And she was fairly certain Harry had been in the house at that time. So how had he done that? How had he killed someone without being present? Had Potter hired an assassin? If so, then he was far more pragmatic than she thought. And then there was that other man, Szarka. He had exploded, the Weasleys had said. Well, there were spells for that kind of thing, yes, but Harry had definitely been in the house at that time. She was sure of it. So how had that one worked? And again, no evidence had been found, from what she had heard, although some might have been destroyed when Szarka had been blown apart. If Harry had indeed done that, then he was craftier than she would have ever thought him to be.
The look he had sent her in the makeshift infirmary to keep her quiet had told her enough – he knew how it had been done because it had been his work. Likewise, Granger knew as well, having assisted Harry in the preparation. In that moment, Daphne had gotten yet another piece of the puzzle that was Harry James Potter, her husband and friend. He was dangerous.
Of course it shouldn't have come as much of a surprise or shock. He fought a war. She had known he had killed. She had known he planned to kill again. But only after she had heard about the death of Szarka had she begun to understand what he was capable of. And yet, she couldn't help but remember what she had learned when he had still been Potter. He cared about people. He knew pain. He did it because he felt it necessary. He wanted to scare his enemies into submission. He wanted to keep his methods secret, and he managed that quite fine from the looks of it.
New Year's celebrators were passing outside, singing some Muggle song off-key Daphne didn't know. It made her think of her family. Neither the painting nor the Weasleys' arrival had brought her news of her family, and the mirror had stayed dark as well – Millicent and Tracey likely spent their time with their families. A part of her hoped her parents had moved on. If they had, she would feel slightly better being buried in the house. At least they would have a good life ahead of them, instead of –
No, she decided. She wouldn't allow those thoughts to take root, not this time, not at the start of a new year. Her gaze shifted to the windows, and she sighed, recalling the muted celebration in front of them roughly two hours ago. Weasleys in one corner, huddled together, Daphne in the other, with Harry trying to split his time evenly between his guests. In effect, he had stayed five times as long with Granger and the Weasleys. When the year change had come, they had exchanged a few words and an awkward hug – Harry and her, at least. Daphne hadn't missed the disappointment in the twins' faces at the lack of New Year's kisses between the married couple, and had slipped out just as Granger had hugged Harry and kissed him on the cheek.
From what she had heard through her door while working on creating a modified Babbling Hex just to pass some time, everyone had gone to bed a short time later. Daphne had given up on her project a bit after one and gone to bed, but hadn't found any sleep.
So she had returned to the drawing room once more, mainly to look out once more. Locked in some stuffy room wouldn't have boded well for the next year, she had decided, and the Muggles were still sending the occasional firework in the sky or making noise. But even visiting the drawing room hadn't worked as well as she had hoped. She was restless; she needed to do something. If only she'd had some cheesy story lying around – light reading and a guilty pleasure. But no, apparently the Black women hadn't seen fit to include something like that in their library. She could have used some sappy love story to distract her.
She could read up on some of the spells Harry had marked over the last few days, Daphne mused. That spell to irritate the lungs had some merit. If an enemy couldn't breathe, he couldn't fight either, and it was fairly easy once one knew how to do it.
No, she decided, she had read enough over the last few days, hadn't she? And she needed to spend some energy, tire herself out. So she brushed a few wrinkles out of her dressing gown and headed upstairs to the training room. Harry wouldn't mind, would he? She guessed not. He might even find it amusing, should he learn about it.
The painting of Phineas Nigellus was empty, thankfully. She didn't have the patience for him at the moment, and even less interest to explain her presence on the floor to him. Yet she hesitated. What good would cursing lifeless objects do? Or why should she waste her time hunting conjured animals? She changed her mind. She felt like bothering Harry. Yes, that sounded more entertaining.
His door opened without a sound, but unlike the last times, he wasn't awake. He lay on his back helter-skelter, facing the ceiling and snoring. Feeling oddly reminiscent of her first visit, she walked closer, eyes on his hands just in case.
He reminded her of Astoria, strangely, but unlike her, his sleep didn't look as untroubled. Nor did Astoria's bellybutton show normally; proper ladies didn't act so immodest when they could be seen. And what Daphne had at first believed to be snores were in truth groans; grumbling, he shuddered from time to time. Another nightmare, then, Daphne concluded, feeling oddly sympathetic. She stepped closer, now aware of the situation, especially the similarity with her first visit to the room. Yet she was also sure she didn't want to leave him like that; as before, she knew she would have preferred being woken up to the continued dreams. Suddenly his hands twitched just as she was about to shake him, and he bared his teeth, tensing, but not from pain, she felt and thought. He snarled, much like a dog might do, his eyes jumping wildly behind their lids.
She'd seen enough and shook him slightly. As if a switch had been flicked, he woke up.
Daphne jumped back, out of the path of any spell he might fling her way. But none came. Instead, he sat up, rubbing his face tiredly with a look of confusion.
"What time is it?" Harry mumbled, and she replied, "Ten past two." After a moment, she added, "Sorry for waking you up."
He waved it off. "Anything the matter?"
"Just thought I'd bother you for a bit," she answered truthfully, chuckling. "And I had to make sure Granger didn't ravage you on the spot after I left."
"Ah, the jealous wife, yes," Harry replied, subtly stretching his shoulders. "She didn't, but I doubt Ron would have let her anyway. Or that she'd want to in the first place. Not with me, at least. Should've seen the looks Ron sent after she hugged me. Or Charlie. Or the twins. Didn't help that the latter were trying to wind him up."
"Unlike you who'd never do that to his friend," Daphne added with a smile.
"Wouldn't dream of it, no," he said, swinging his legs off the bed and facing her. "Not like that, and I doubt I could get away with it anyway. Neither Ron nor Hermione would have believed it, so the joke wouldn't have worked. You left rather early, though," he pointed out.
"I had something to do in my room." It wasn't a lie, but it still felt like one. Daphne wasn't sure why she even bothered about that. Partly to give a slightly better reason, she added, "And I wanted to get to bed sometime as well."
"Yet you are here now," he told her. Although it was a statement, she could hear the question in it, and she didn't like it.
"Drop it. So I'm not sleeping right now, that doesn't have to mean anything. I've been getting better lately. How often have I met you in the middle of the night without drawing conclusions? No, I just had too much on my mind, I guess, and I thought I shouldn't be the only one awake, so here I am." Not wanting to be the only one standing, she sauntered over to the bed and sat next to Harry. "And I wouldn't have wanted to miss the memory of finding you spread-eagled on the bed. Like a little child."
He chuckled. "Ah, that is indeed a memory to treasure. But then, I am only human and have rarely claimed otherwise."
"And I got to see your bellybutton," she teased.
Harry shrugged. "So? Most people have one."
Daphne smiled. "True, but to see the great and mighty Harry Potter like that gives a whole new perspective on life. Well, I knew you aren't a proper pureblood who's always intent on giving the best of impressions, but..." She waited, but no reply came. Maybe he didn't have a decent comeback, she thought with a satisfied smile. Her thoughts went to the memory of his troubled sleep. "So you had a nightmare," she commented, lost in thought, only to mentally slap herself moments later. Hadn't she chided him in the past for being too curious and prying into her business? And yet she couldn't stop herself from doing the same.
"Yeah," he admitted. "I relived a duel. Not really all that pleasant, but it's in the past, isn't it?"
"You answer me that. Is it?" Daphne was honestly curious. While they occasionally talked about him, they hadn't really dealt with his problems much. It had mostly been to draw comparisons to her life, to give her something to relate to.
Harry didn't answer, but she could read it on his face. The duel might have been in the past, but he hadn't forgotten about it and made her wonder about the incident. Assuming she had read him correctly, Daphne couldn't remember a duel he might feel bad about. She had seen his face; it hadn't been pain or fear he had shown, but anger and hate. When had Harry ever hated someone he duelled? There was some secret to him, some conflict she had seen earlier. He wasn't the obnoxious boy some accused him of being, she had learned as much, but actually closer to a troubled teen trying to live with the harsh truth of a war he participated in. Sometimes, he seemed very mature, ruthless and calculating, for example during the plotting of his assassinations she had seen from afar occasionally; she had little doubt left he could be a decisive leader, and from what she had heard about the actual attacks, he was horrifyingly competent. Other times, there were hints of the unsure, frightened boy he should have been given his age. It was as if he was struggling with himself, or more precisely, as if there were two sides to him, a public face of a strong leader and a private face of a human being.
"I await the day this madness ends," he confided in her, bringing her out of her musings. "This has to end somehow." There he was again, the boy Harry Potter. It had to end, she agreed privately, if only so she would no longer be faced with an unknown future she couldn't properly plan for. It also had to end, she added after a moment, so that Harry could get some rest.
"True," she told him, "but it's not your decision, is it?" She glanced around the room. "Not entirely, at least; others will have a hand in there as well. And you do have allies in your fight, right? You've got your friends fighting for your side."
"I guess so," he acknowledged. "But the closer the end comes, the more I realize what needs to be done. This isn't about... about one man, as such, and it isn't about only now, is it? Once one Dark Lord dies, the next is born, so to speak. Someone will take his place one day. Well, a year ago, I thought I only had to worry about this one. The poetic justice, I kill him and die in the process, and someone else has to step in and protect the world after me. Or, you know, ruin it, depending on how you view it."
"Dark thoughts, Mr. Potter," she commented, swinging her legs slightly.
"Well, yes. But that knowledge was also strangely comforting. I had a defined role, a purpose in life, if you will. When I saw myself as a character in some cruel story, I was sure there was some sort of... law, or order governing the world around me. If I had a role, why not others as well? If the Dark Lords rise all the time, might not someone else rise to the challenge and learn from my mistakes? Without order, I'm left with chaos. No one follows the rules, if there are any in the first place."
"You could follow them, you'd just have to decide to do so." Daphne could see the reply before he even opened his mouth.
"And at what price? Follow the rules while the other side doesn't. They'd see it as weakness, wouldn't they? Potter and his ilk, too cowardly to get their hands dirty." He sighed. "It's war, unfortunately. This is not the final battle against the dark, this is not the..." he stopped, shrugging helplessly, "not the war to end all wars. His followers will still be around. They might claim otherwise, but once no one looks at them anymore, they will gather their strength again, and they will try again one day. And then what? Step aside and let someone else continue the work? I... no, not really. So my fight won't end, will it? Even if I fulfil my destiny and kill this Dark Lord and every single one after that, after everything I will have to do for that, won't I be like the monsters I tried to defeat in the first place?"
"I can see why you preferred thinking of it as a story, yes. Then you could be a hero and end it like one, instead of getting your hands dirty having to do what needs to be done, yes."
"It would also mean I'd probably get some decent quip for the final confrontation," he said, smiling sadly.
Daphne snorted. "You're worried about that?"
He shrugged. "I thought about it. It's not like I'd have gotten a redo, so whatever will come out of my mouth will forever be remembered and associated with me. And since people are obsessed with me..."
"Well, that shouldn't be too hard now, right?" Daphne asked, pursing her lips. "Let's see. How about, 'You've challenged the wrong wizard'? Or perhaps something more dramatic? 'May the afterlife be kind to you, for on this side of the divide, no one will remember you in the end.'"
"Too long, I think," Harry chuckled.
She lay back on his bed. "Perhaps you could try, 'Any last words? Apart from Please no?' Or... err, let's see."
"'You will be forgotten and gone, like a leaf in autumn'?" Harry tried, lying down next to her. They stared up at the ceiling, and Daphne found herself thinking of the stars above them, unseen, but present.
"'The river of life washes away the rot of death. In time, nothing will remain but a distant shadow of you, a story for children and the simple minds.' Err, no, too long, he'd get bored by the time you were finished." She reached out to the ceiling. "'Stars. Have you ever looked up... Err...'"
"Tom," Harry told her.
"Tom? Really?" Turning her head to look at him, she asked, "Weren't you worried about being remembered for your words to him?"
"He hates that name, though," Harry told her, grinning. "It'd be forever connected to him that way."
"If you say so," Daphne agreed, not really thinking much about the name. If Harry wanted to call the most powerful dark wizard of the last few centuries Tom, then she wouldn't complain. "'Have you ever looked up, Tom, and wondered about the fragility of life?'"
Harry chuckled once more. "Well, he isn't one for philosophy – too little practical, deadly applications."
"Ooh, philosophy, a big word, Harry. Granger would be proud of you," she laughed. "Besides, you were the one who wanted a quip for the final fight with him, so don't you dare complain when I deliver you with some excellent lines." She would have brushed her fingers on her shirt if she had worn one, but guessed her dressing gown and the nightdress underneath would ruin the effect.
"They weren't bad," he tried, yet she heard the lie behind his words, "but not exactly my style. They'd... set the bar very high for later confrontations? And they were rather... Well, granted, they aren't the weirdest I have ever seen or heard in my life," he said, shrugging, "so there's that."
"Now I'm curious," she spoke up, turning to face him. Only then did she realize they were actually fairly close to each other and technically wearing little more than nightclothes. Not the first time they'd met that way, but the first time they were lying on his bed.
Harry scratched his chin, distracting her. "I've seen the love child of a horse and a walrus. It's a pig, in case you are wondering. A bipedal, speaking pig, even if it usually only told nonsense. And you know what? It grew up to be a repentant human being. If that isn't strange, I don't know what is." There was an odd hint of something like grief there.
Daphne narrowed her eyes, wondering about the best way to ask about it, when hasty steps sounded from the stairs outside. Harry sat up abruptly and bounded over to the door. He had just reached it when someone knocked. He opened, but only partly. Daphne couldn't see who was outside and assumed whoever it was hadn't seen her or realized Harry wasn't alone. Probably for the better, she mused. As far as she knew, no one in the house was aware of her night-time visits, and whoever was outside had probably not come to see her, which meant her presence didn't need to be revealed. She didn't need to wonder who had shown up, though, for Granger's voice drifted over to her.
"... it," the other girl was saying. "It should work. I was lying in bed, but couldn't go to sleep. Well, I worried about Charlie and thought 'He'd better not get sick, that's the last thing he needs. Perhaps I should get him some medicine against a cold, just in case.' We don't have that much here, unfortunately. Well, we do have potions for that, yes, but I thought... Anyway, that's when it hit me. That's what you can do the next time!" Harry answered something Daphne couldn't quite catch, but Granger groaned in reply. "No, I didn't mean that, Harry, be real. What do you do when you get a cold?" He said something, and Granger told him, "You'd better you tar for that, Harry. No, I meant, well, you take medicine. ... So not you, fine, but most people, and that's what gave me the idea. Reasonably speaking, they shouldn't realize how you did it because you'd use the natural processes of the human body to destroy all evidence and not magic. In fact, it is about as non-magical as they come, so there is a very strong likelihood of them not even picking up something beforehand. Magicals are pretty ignorant about what is going on around them. Isn't that why your plans have worked so far? I mean, they'll check everything, of course, but..."
"Hermione," Harry interrupted her, holding the door still halfway closed. "I remember an instance a few weeks back where our roles were reversed. I was standing in front of your door with a brilliant plan and wanted to talk to you urgently, but you sent me away."
"That was completely different, Harry. I will just tell you quickly if you let me in," Granger said, and Harry seemed to have to actually hold the door in position to stop his friend from barging in.
"No," he replied. "After dawn. Think of it as my revenge for that one time I came to you in the dead of night with a brilliant idea, yet you sent me away. No matter what you might claim, this seems to be exactly the same. After dawn will have to do, all right?"
Granger's grumbling wafted over to Daphne, who had to fight down a laugh. Only she would actually complain about something like that after doing the same – rebuffing her friend after a late-night visit not a month ago, that is. Daphne idly wondered whether Granger realized the hypocrisy, but ultimately guessed the Muggleborn might not care about it. Still, Daphne was thinking about what she had heard. Part of her felt insulted that Granger – and Harry as well, it seemed – thought magicals to be ignorant of their surroundings and looked down on them. Another, larger part acknowledged that Granger likely hadn't lied. So if Harry had indeed used that blind spot for his schemes, was he smart or magicals simply stupid? And wasn't he taking a huge risk to rely on his enemies' ignorance? Granger had also given Daphne a hint about how Harry and she worked – Muggle means – but it only raised more questions. How did Muggles make someone keel over dead without any evidence? How did they blow someone up without getting caught? And where had two teenagers learned it?
After some grumbling, Granger seemed to have accepted the decision, for Harry closed the door. Once he had, he turned, shaking his head, smiling.
"Honestly, sometimes I wonder about her." Daphne raised an eyebrow, surprised by his admission, and he elaborated, "Well, I understand how she feels; I was in her place a while ago, as you might remember, and I expect she will tell me about it first thing in the morning, but..." He shook his head. "Doesn't matter. At least she doesn't just walk in without invitation, unlike other people." He sent Daphne a meaningful look, and she snorted.
"As if you'd have answered the door." Truthfully, she wasn't sure whether Harry would have answered the door. She hadn't been able to figure out just what could awaken him, so it was actually possible a knock on the door could have worked. Then again, she hadn't come to wake him, but to bother him, so it was a moot point anyway.
He shrugged and lay back down on the bed next to her. "We might never know. Well, I guess I should be glad I could postpone the talk until the morning. Finding you here – in your nightclothes, mind – might have brought up..." He frowned.
"What, unwanted attention?" Daphne interrupted him, smiling. She could just imagine the Muggleborn's reaction, and she had to fight a giggle at the thought.
"Questions," he told her. "How should I explain your presence without mentioning the previous visits in the middle of the night, for one? And how do I explain those meetings in the first place? 'We ran into each other and decided to have a talk. What? Oh, the nightclothes, well, don't worry about those; it's nothing we haven't done before.' Somehow, I don't think she'd take that all that well. And that doesn't even take Ron into account, never mind the other Weasleys currently in the house."
Daphne shrugged. "Well, we have been acting close and comfortable around each other over the last weeks, so she might think we had taken a leaf out of her book. She's been weaselling around Weasley for the past months; it'd be highly hypocritical of her to... Well, all right, I can see her complaining about us, yeah. But while Granger and I might not be the best of friends, we're hardly enemies any more. It's more along the lines of a truce. And ignoring that, so what if she thinks we're growing closer? She knows we're married, and it's hardly her business what I do. Or, for that matter, you. You're old enough to decide for yourself."
"True," Harry reminded her, "but you forget she knows why we are married and, for all intents and purposes, bound to each other for the next few years. In her eyes and to the best of her knowledge, this is a business agreement. That it's nothing more is the only reason she isn't really hostile towards you, I think."
"Hostile? Granger?" Daphne raised an eyebrow. "Please do explain. I thought she'd be more or less fine with me here by now."
"Yes, well, I don't know whether..." He fidgeted.
"It concerns you, so it's fine," she pointed out.
"She was convinced I'd hook up with Ginny," Harry replied, rolling his eyes. "That was what she had envisioned for me – to get together with Ginny."
"Well, that's not too unreasonable, to be honest. You both like Quidditch, you are both... err, Gryffindors, I guess; she's probably liked you for a while, so there's that, even though the last two items on that list apply to –what, thirty girls? And that is going with the assumption that you would only date Gryffindors."
"Exactly. If I would date girls from other houses as well, that'd easily be hundreds of candidates. If I don't limit myself to Hogwarts, the number would rise to the thousands, and if I'm also open for a relationship with a Muggle, that'd be tens of thousands in Britain alone. The idea that it has to be one particular girl is a bit odd to me."
"Err," Daphne interjected, "I can't really say that I know Weasley good enough to know whether you'd be a good match – the girl, I mean, not one of the boys, although that'd be most welcome among the gossip mongers – but otherwise..."
"Not really, no. Ignoring for a second that we actually have fairly little in common to build a relationship on apart from Quidditch and our shared house, both of which don't really matter to me as much as one might think, there is little attraction on my part. I said as much to Hermione. That's how she learned about the contract in the first place, she tried to convince me to give Ginny a chance and I said I wouldn't. The contract came up; Hermione was not amused, both with the continued tradition and my predicament. Only after she wheedled out of me why I accidentally activated the contract – on purpose, in truth – did she relax slightly, knowing I wasn't as much of a victim of circumstances and that for once I hadn't been the plaything of some strange accident."
Daphne doubted Granger could relax about anything, and for a moment pitied Weasley, but then she remembered she didn't like him much. "Well, that's her problem, then, isn't it? She doesn't get to decide who you spend time with or let in your room."
"Or on my bed," he added, fighting a smile with a raised eyebrow.
"Oho," Daphne laughed from her position on his bed, "easy there! And I'll have you know it is a very comfortable bed." As if to demonstrate, she stretched with her eyes half-closed, rolling her head slightly to let her hair fall off her shoulders. "It's almost worth marrying you."
"Ouch, married because of the bed. But yes, it is nice. I remember the one I had the last time I was here. One morning I woke up and noticed a spring piercing me. Punched right through the pyjamas and into my... Well, anyway."
"Yes, right into your...?" she asked, grinning.
"Thigh, if you need to know. Bloody painful." He frowned, and she guessed he was telling the truth. That, or she'd have a very funny story waiting for her once she revisited that episode in a few weeks.
"Ah, that's bad," she told him, but she couldn't help laughing. "When I was eight, my father sat me on a broom, my first flight, so to speak. Well, the first on a real broom. Mum was furious about that, come to think of it, but anyway, the broom sped off, all was fine until I flew into a tree. I hit one of the branches. The broom continued forward, I didn't. It must have looked hilarious, but I mostly remember the pain of falling down. That and hitting the branch. The next week, whenever I took a breath, I thought I felt my ribs aching again."
"Ouch, that sounds pretty bad. I know how that is, having the air knocked out of you." He nodded. "Yes, the bed is fine. It reminds me of Hogwarts and the dorms, actually."
"Ah, the dorms," Daphne sighed, understanding him. "You have king-sized beds there?"
"No, but they are pretty nice. Don't know about the girl's side, though. I guess they're similar to those in Slytherin. Only, you know, red and gold, not green and silver." He frowned and added to himself so Daphne could barely make it out, "Bigger than the Slytherins', I think."
She blinked in surprise. "How would you know that?"
Looking shifty for a moment, he evaded her eye. "Just a guess. Forget it."
"Didn't sound like a guess," she said, raising an eyebrow. He had sounded quite sure of that, and she could think of very little reasons for Harry Potter, the fabled Boy-Who-Lived, to know the size of Slytherin beds.
"Look, it's simple, really. The Founders wouldn't have wanted to dig too much or they'd have hit the lake. Unless they used extension charms, but they'd wear off over time, wouldn't they? Anyway, that's why the Slytherin dorms have to be smaller than, let's say, the towers of Gryffindor or Ravenclaw. Or Hufflepuff down on ground floor, I think. Unless there's some extension charm in place, the dorms can't reach out that far into the grounds."
"How would you know where the Slytherin dorms are? Maybe they're directly under the castle? Or, you know, somewhere above ground?" Daphne asked him, sitting up. She had thought it to be a relatively well-kept secret, especially with the numerous entrances shifting occasionally to confuse other students.
"Err, I was just..." he tried feebly.
"No, you were quite certain about that," Daphne pointed out. "So how do you know where Slytherin House is?"
Harry shifted uncomfortably, and for a moment, he looked like a disobedient child. "Well, I was there once," he said finally. "In second year, I was let into your Common Room during the holidays. That's how I know where it is, roughly speaking."
"Just like that?" Daphne spoke disbelievingly. "You were just let into the Common Room? What kind of idiot would do that?"
"No, not just like that," Harry sighed, looking as if he was struggling with himself. "Malfoy let me in, thinking I was Goyle."
"You don't look anything like Goyle, though," Daphne told him. "Not at all, not now and not back then. Was Malfoy blind?"
"No, I just looked very much like Goyle," Harry told her with a hint of a mischievous smile. "We wanted to check whether he knew who was the Heir of Slytherin, so we had this plan to ask him, disguised as his two bodyguards. Polyjuice Potion, you know?"
Daphne stared for a moment, then fell back on the bed and laughed loudly. "That's brilliant! Sneaking into our house? No, being let in by Malfoy, of all people? That's almost worth having you been in there. You must have been idiots back then, no doubt, Malfoy would never tell his friends anything important like that, but still, tricking him like that, brilliant!" It took some time, but after a while, she finally calmed down.
"So, what did you think, then?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.
Harry glanced around awkwardly. "I prefer Gryffindor. It has a more homely feeling to it – comfy chairs, fireplace, pictures all around, students milling around... Gryffindor is ruled by chaos, Slytherin by order... something like that, you know? Not to mention, there's a nice view of the Hogwarts grounds."
"Hmm, well, I can do without chaos," Daphne spoke, weighing her words carefully, "but a nice view was indeed sorely missed by me."
Harry chuckled. "And wouldn't you know, the boys' dorms also had windows looking out onto the grounds."
"Now you're trying to make me jealous," she pouted.
"Maybe a little, yes," he admitted. "But then, the dorms were also ruled by chaos, naturally. You don't want to find your dorm mate scrubbing his underwear with a toothbrush while searching for your own. Once is enough."
"Was that Gryffindorish or him being a boy?" Daphne wondered, glancing to Harry.
"Both? Neither? Don't know. Magic does funny things with people's heads. He said he was sleepwalking, but..."
It was a good opportunity to bring up what she had guessed from Granger's visit, but Daphne hesitated. Did she want to know? Did she have to? It was probably better not to linger and be tempted.
"Something on your mind?" he asked.
Caught, she bit her lip. "I... well, I couldn't help but hear bits and pieces of what Granger said. Do you really see magicals as ignorant of what's happening around them?"
Harry sighed. "I don't want to, but there's some truth to it. Think about every time witches or wizards enter the Muggle world. Chances are good they'll gawk at random things or make really stupid mistakes. At the Quidditch World Cup, some people tried paying the Muggle campsite manager with wizarding money. It's like they either can't learn or don't want to, and some seem to not think things through either. Sorry, Daphne, but sometimes, magicals are ignorant."
"... And you use that against them? For your... for your plans in this war? For the attacks?" she asked hesitantly. "Sorry, you don't have to answer, and I hadn't tried to listen in on your talk, but..."
"Don't think about it," he interrupted, waving her off. "Well, it's more a bit of creative thinking and some rather basic Muggle knowledge, mostly. Hermione and I, we merely tweak it a bit here and there to fit our needs."
Not knowing what to say to that, stared back at the ceiling. The more she thought about it, though, the more she was convinced he was joking to avoid having to answer honestly. Yes, that had to be it, Harry giving her a story so ridiculous to tell her not to ask about his methods. And Daphne wasn't even sure she wanted to know.
It was then she realized they were lying on the bed in silence and fairly close to each other once more. "Well," she spoke with a sigh, "I guess I should go now."
Harry stared at the ceiling, again avoiding her eye. "You don't have to, you know?"
Daphne blinked, turning to him.
A moment later, he looked at her. "If you want to stay for a bit, I don't mind. I don't plan to throw you out or anything." There was a slight glint in his eye, and he smirked. "It's the bed, isn't it? Don't want to leave it?"
She blushed, but nodded, internally wondering why she didn't lie. Or did she lie and wanted to stay for some other reason? No, she was certain it was the bed; the comfortable bed in the big room illuminated by the dim light of various magical trinkets. "Don't laugh," she warned Harry, seeing his smile.
"Hadn't planned to," he said, raising his hands defensively. He didn't laugh, but the corners of his mouth twitched. "I know the feeling, remember? That bed is one of the reasons why I'm up here, Daphne, and not downstairs with my friends in one of the room. Well, if it makes you happy, then by all means, stay. For the next few years, it's your bed as well." He hesitated, scratching his cheek. "Well, I meant, since one of us owns it, you're free to use it... well, not exactly any time, I guess, but..."
It was odd, she thought, how awkward he could be occasionally and yet still acting confident and ruthless at other times. "So are you telling me," she began, smiling sweetly at him, although she did stop herself from fluttering her eyelashes at him – that would have been too much in her opinion, "that you don't mind a young witch in a nightdress lounging on your bed?"
He laughed, but it sounded faked as he tried unsuccessfully to cover up his previous blunder. "Hardly. If you want to lie on my bed, why should I stop you? Look, you can stay here, and I'll just... work on something over there at the table for a while, and you can lounge as much as you want." After a moment, he added, "For now, I meant, not... yeah." He made to rise.
It had to have been folly, but Daphne reached out and grabbed his wrist. Both looked at it, surprised by the action, and she became astutely aware of the colour rising to her cheeks. But it had been done, and she couldn't back down; she had to move forward and come up with a decent excuse for her behaviour.
"Err, you don't need to," she spoke up, hesitant and baffled by her own words. "Not for my sake, that is. I woke you up, remember? And it's your bed." He stared at her, and she felt herself blush more under his gaze. "Well, I only meant..." she stammered, cursing herself for not sounding more confident. "Not that, you know?" Even though he hadn't said or done anything, Daphne felt the urge to clarify her intentions. "I just meant you don't have to leave for my sake. I don't bite, and neither, I'm hoping do you." Following a sudden inspiration, she added, "And the bed is big enough for two, isn't it? That's what it was made for, right?" Only then did she realize it sounded almost worse – the bed had also been made for couple time. And why did she still hold his wrist? She let go as if burned by the touch.
After a long moment of staring at her, he sank back into his previous position at her side. Had they been so close before, she wondered. They must have been, she reasoned, but it hadn't seemed that way. Maybe it was simply the added subtext that made her think so. And he still had that questioning look in his eyes, trying to figure out why she had let him stay, as if she hadn't made her reasons perfectly clear.
Had let him stay, she thought, more like offered it. But he had earned it, hadn't he? He had been decent over the last weeks, all things considered, so why should she be opposed to him staying on his own bed in his own room in his own house? Well, their bed in their room in their house, she guessed, at least for the moment.
Harry started chuckling for some reason. "Took me almost twenty weeks," he laughed.
Daphne propped herself up once more, frowning at him. "What are you talking about?" she asked him.
"Well, to share a bed with you, of course," he explained in between chortles. "You offered to share the bed back in our first night as well, only the attack came and we never did. Remember? And after that, we were separated at first, then, when you arrived, you preferred to stay well away from the rest of us. So here we are, almost twenty weeks after your initial offer, with you reusing your comment about not biting, and finally sharing a bed – sort of."
That took her by surprise. Yes, he was right, she had said that all the way back then, but mostly because there had only been one bed in the room, of course, and it would have been idiotic to have him sleep on the floor. Oh, and she had hoped for a good story to embellish a little in front of her friends, but he was still right.
"I'm surprised you do," she told him, raising an eyebrow. "Especially at a time like this. Or that you remember my words." That really did surprise her. He had to have listened to her quite well. Should she feel honoured?
"Oh, I do remember," Harry replied, smiling at her with a curious glint in his eye. "I was too worried to not commit it to memory."
"You did fight me over it, yes. What did you have to worry about, though? I mean, I don't really get that. What was your problem back then? I can understand chivalry – you are a Gryffindor, after all – but I more or less insisted on you not being stupidly fussy and offered to share the bed."
"I... well, sharing a bed would have meant..." He hesitated, and she was about to ask just what he had thought it would have meant exactly when she saw him frown and look away awkwardly. "I wasn't sure," he told her reluctantly, "how I'd... sleep that night. Whether I'd..." He hesitated. "Well, whether I'd have a good sleep that night, I guess. 'Potter Punches Pureblood Bride', you know?" he joked. "You turning up the next morning with a black eye or some bruises..."
"So what if you would have had a nightmare?" she asked, shrugging with the shoulder that didn't support her. "It'd have been unintentional and easily healed." Suddenly aware of the hypocrisy, she continued, "There'd have been worse you could have done that night than have a bad dream, like, say, try to feel me up or something."
He laughed again. "As if you'd have let me! There'd been little left of me for... by the time of the attack," he amended. "Granted, you did wear that nightdress, so... mixed signals and all that," he said with a shrug.
"There was nothing else there and it already laid out for me, remember?" Daphne did, not commenting on his second assumption. Would she have hurt him back then if he had tried anything at all? Well, probably yes, and maybe not, all things considered. Unbidden, she wondered whether she would feel the same way now. Well, maybe, but probably not.
"Nothing a wave of a wand wouldn't have fixed," he argued, startling her out of her thoughts.
"And destroy that negligee?" She scoffed, trying to regain control of herself. What had she been thinking? Her and Potter? As if! "And it's not for you to decide or judge what I wear."
"You could have conjured something," he pointed out, fighting a smile. "And you didn't stop me from commenting back then. Or even reprimanded me for it. You certainly didn't complain – rather the opposite, now that I think about it – so you didn't seem to mind me judging what you wore back then." There was teasing in his voice as barely concealed mirth shone in his eyes at knowing he had won that round.
"So I liked getting a compliment, even if it had been nonverbal," she admitted, brushing his argument aside playfully as she got back into the game. "And how was I to know whether you didn't admire the negligee instead of me? You could very well have been jealous – and rightfully so, that I can tell you – that I got something so nice."
"Fair enough," he replied casually. "It was a nice piece of clothing. You did look nice in it, for the record, but that's... Anyway, I understand your reasoning. Making advances on you that night would have been worse than having a nightmare and would definitely have crossed the line."
Daphne groaned, in part because he had missed the point and in part because she was frustrated by talking about him making advances on her – it reminded her of her realization from before and made her all the more aware of the charged atmosphere in the house. Yes, that had to be it; Granger and Weasley's courting combined with the lack of distraction like a silly book made her long for something of her own. Still, if she only tried enough, she would surely triumph over her immature impulses. "Feeling me up would still be inappropriate, Harry. What do you think I am, a melon?"
"A melon?" he asked in wonder, raising an eyebrow.
"No, I am a young woman." She punched him in the shoulder with her free arm – he deserved it either way, she reasoned, whether he had played along with her bad joke or because he was an idiot. "You don't need to feel me up to see whether I am ripe."
"I know that; I was just... All right, I get it. I'm just surprised you thought I'd do that – that you thought I'd have tried to feel you up."
She raised a challenging eyebrow, but decided against fishing for a compliment. She didn't have all day to wait for him to think of something decently kind to say to her, after all. "I didn't expect you to after the way you acted at the ceremony; you were fairly decent that day, I was just trying to make a point." She sighed, hoping he would finally see it from her point of view. "Having a bad dream? Unfortunate, but I'd probably have understood. Groping me? Not so much."
"The way I acted at the ceremony?" Harry looked at her.
"Well, you didn't get all touchy, you kept your distance most of the time – looked twitchy, even – and didn't use the opportunity to smother me with that kiss." She had tried to pass it off as inconsequential, but didn't feel as if she had done a good enough job. At least she hadn't blushed, because she found herself suddenly remembering the kiss; the feeling of his lips on hers, softly brushing against hers, his hand gently on hers in reassurance, his scent rising in her nose even though she hadn't paid attention to it back then. For just a moment, she lost herself in that memory, and the longing for some romance of her own returned stronger than before.
Harry kept quiet for a moment. "Well, I was nervous because I feared an attack. We were quite exposed there, and say what you will, but killing me on my wedding day would have been a pretty impressive signal to the wizarding world; I was only off about the time, that's it. Could've happened to the best. And we didn't really know each other that well back then, so getting all touchy would have been weird."
"Exactly," Daphne agreed with a nod, "it would have been weird to get all touchy, whether at the wedding or later that evening."
"But what was so wrong about that kiss?" he asked, tilting his head.
"Nothing! It was fine, all right?" she shouted, wanting to wave her hands around in frustration. Instead, she sat up. Why were they even talking about that? Why ask her that? How was she to answer that question truthfully without reliving it once more, and worse, in his presence? Or was he trying to wind her up? Revenge for her waking him up? Simple boredom? "But you could have laid a claim on me or something that day. You could have shown everyone that I was yours or something, and we both know the truth about that, don't we? You didn't, which I was glad for, and you didn't try, which was welcome."
"Hm, I guess I could have," he mused, almost as if the idea hadn't come to him before. "All right, so no kisses and no feeling you up. Easy enough."
She pushed herself up from the bed. Sharp pain shot through her shoulder, but she ignored it as she paced for a moment just to deal with her frustration. "Are you intentionally acting so stupid? There's a certain pace to it, you can't just rush in. I would have expected you to pick up that much from somewhere." Seeing him stare at her, she threw her hands up. Her shoulder still ached. "It's a dance, Harry, a dance between two partners. What do you think, that you can walk up to a girl, get a handful of her and you're set? That it's either yes or no and nothing in between? It's about mood, about the right setting and moment. Wedding kiss? Fine. Slobbering her? Not so much. Complimenting a girl you know when she knows she's looking decent? Fine. Feel her up when she's dead on her feet? Not so much. Setting a decent mood, getting the cues and, admittedly, looking reasonably good? That's what I meant, nothing more. We barely even knew each other back then! We were acting the part in a play."
"We aren't now?" he countered, raising his eyebrows with a coy smile.
Daphne sent him a glare to stop further interruptions. "Do you think we'd have played the couple around Weasley back then like we did in the past weeks? I seriously doubt it, yet now we do exactly that. Or we did that until his brothers arrived. Frankly, I'd probably have been freaked out by then, not knowing who I'm dealing with."
"You might be right about that," he admitted. "Back then, it would have been weird, but now..."
"Of course I am right. But now we know each other and our limits better, so that's fine." She spread her arms as if waving the matter aside. It was only then she noticed what she had said – that they had gotten to know each other and grown close enough to tease his friends together, almost as if they had something going on already. She froze for a moment, before adding, "But that doesn't mean anything else, of course!"
Silence fell between them, and Daphne turned away from him, shaking her head in frustration and massaging her aching shoulder. Why did he have to make things so complicated?
"Does your neck hurt?" he asked her, stepping closer. She hadn't even noticed him getting up, but figured it didn't matter; she had already known he could move quiet like a cat, and she had been distracted by her thoughts.
"Doesn't matter," she told him, not turning around again. A moment later, his hand came to rest on hers. She whipped around. "I don't need..." she shouted, but when she came face to face with him, she broke off. Instead of infuriating Potter, she found her friend Harry. "Your help," she added after a moment, considerably less forceful.
He stared back at her, startling her. She would have expected amusement or maybe worry or curiosity; instead, he seemed torn, watchful.
He did look nice in his own way, now that she thought about it. While not tall and muscular, with shining teeth and wild hair flowing in the breeze, he did have a stringy body with hidden strength. He likely wouldn't crumble under the weight on his shoulders. Even his hair looked as if wouldn't bend to someone's will. And if nothing else, he did have very expressive eyes and a somewhat endearing smile if he wanted to.
He woke from his daze, it seemed, scratching his cheek. "I'm sorry, I just wanted to... offer it, I guess. I'm not good at this stuff – at talking to girls," he told her apologetically.
That in turn brought her out of her reverie. She blinked. And then she laughed, wishing she had something to lean against to steady herself.
"I know," she replied once she had calmed down a bit, grinning. "Yule Ball, remember?"
"Well, that too, but I meant..." he began.
"I know what you meant," she said, smiling patronizingly and putting a hand on his shoulder. "Still," she added after a moment, walking back to the bed and sitting down on it, "you aren't that bad, and you could be worse. You could be Jean, now that'd be a disaster to live with."
"Something I should know?" Harry asked, regaining his courage enough to manage a teasing tone. She was actually surprised he had recovered so quickly.
"My date to the Yule Ball. Brilliant dancer, I'll give you that, but hopelessly clueless – worse than you," she replied, equally teasing.
"Can't have been so bad. He still managed to get a date with you to the Yule Ball, didn't he?" Harry asked, raising his eyebrow.
"Jealous?" she laughed softly, winking at him.
He bit his lip, but the corners of his mouth twitched. "What if I said yes?"
She smiled, shrugging. "I'd say it's needless. He's gone, isn't he? In France. And you didn't have any claim on me back then, so he didn't steal me away from you or any other such nonsense. I mean, it's not like I get jealous over Chang and you."
"That was a disaster, though," Harry spoke, blushing slightly. "One the whole school knows about, apparently. It might become part of the history of the school; the disastrous date of the Boy-Who-Lived of 1996."
"It already is. It was a hoot for everyone to hear, so I think you are right about that. But to put us on even ground, Jean was my date to the Yule Ball, one of the students from Beauxbatons. I didn't want to go with anyone from school; he asked – if you want to call it that; I wouldn't really – and looked pretty decent, so I said yes. Also, French accent. We dated for a while afterwards, but it didn't work out, obviously – not with the stress of school and studying for my exams. He was also easily distracted by random stuff. Made even simple talks complicated and no fun. One moment, we were talking, the next, he runs off. When the end of the year came around, we broke it off, so it's not important."
He looked at her with something like understanding in his eyes. "I'm sorry it didn't work out, or rather, that he was easy to distract," he told her. She believed him.
"Don't be. There were some fun moment, and one of the advantages of him was his return at the end of the year. There was always that end we were moving towards, so it wasn't really anything deep."
"Moving towards an end... It's the same with us," Harry pointed out, "even though there is nothing between us."
Daphne frowned. "... Yes, it is." She didn't like the similarities for some reason. She didn't want their marriage to end the same way; Jean had been fun for a while, but an idiot she had been happy to be rid of when the time came. Harry was actually fairly nice, all things considered.
He indicated the spot next to her, tilting his head in question. Receiving a nod as a sign of permission, he sat down. Absentmindedly, she noticed he was so close their legs might have touched accidentally, but brushed the thought off. They had touched before – not their legs so much as their hands or a hug or five, but it didn't change the fact – so why should she go out of her way to avoid the contact?
"But you know," she spoke, staring off into the distance, "I want to have a decent relationship one day, filled with love." She realized only a moment too late she might have said too much, but he didn't pounce on it. Maybe he had noticed as well and held back out of respect, but she guessed he simply had no desire to mock her for the wish.
"And I hope you will," he replied. Watching him, Daphne thought she saw understanding in his eyes, as if he knew exactly what he meant. A strange sense of familiarity rose in her as she recognized one more similarity between them.
She smiled gratefully at him and, leaning slightly over, patted his leg. He might not be her first choice of a husband, but he still had some endearing traits. Maybe the next seven years wouldn't be too bad, she mused, staring at the door. Maybe they could even stay friends later on, once everything was said and done.
His arm snaked around her, a hand tentatively placed on her side in what could have counted as a sidelong hug. Surprised, she glanced towards him, only to find him sending her a small smile. Did he try to show, in his clumsy, boyish way, that he shared her sentiment? Or was that growing tension in his features a sign of something else, a more personal connection? A wish for more?
She didn't mind the hand either way, she decided, and leaned in closer, looking away. Whatever the reason for his action, she could live with both. He relaxed slightly, and his hand steadied. So he liked her. She had already decided she could live with that. Harry was decent enough to not having to worry about much. And they were also stuck in a house, isolated for the most part, with Granger and Weasley dancing around each other; there was very little to do other than prepare for the battle. Hadn't she wished for a bit of a thrill for herself? Hadn't she wanted to have some way to deal with the charged atmosphere around them? Did it matter whether she'd lost herself for a moment in a trashy romance novel or a fantasy about the kind boy she had chosen to marry?
Yes, it did matter, Daphne realized; she actually liked spending time with him. During their talks, their training duels and the time they worked together in the library, he had become a good friend for her. He had proven his trustworthiness as well as his trust in her, and he asked for very little in return. So it did matter whether it was a trashy novel or real life because it could have consequences. She didn't want to risk losing her friend Harry. She didn't want to lose him. A strange thought to be sure, but it was the truth, Daphne realized, tensing slightly. Despite their past, they had formed a friendship and learned to trust each other. Despite her initial plans, they hadn't kept their distance, and she no longer minded it either. She liked spending time with him. She liked him, Daphne admitted with a small smile. She liked Harry, her friend and husband.
She couldn't allow herself to fall for him, of course. In less than seven year's time, they would go their separate ways, and until then, they needed to stay on good terms. That's why they could be friends, good friends even, but other than that, she couldn't allow more. Maybe that's why they had become friends in the first place – to have someone to privately enjoy the hilarious inside joke that was the marriage. Only they knew about the many gambles they had going, one stacked upon the other, whether it was fooling the wizarding world or winding up Weasley.
Still, for one evening – or night, more like it – she could allow herself to relax and enjoy the company, couldn't she? So what if she liked sitting next to him for the time being, she reasoned, she was allowed to, and as long as she didn't make a habit out of it, as long as he wouldn't get the wrong idea no one would get hurt. It was just the companionship that had her staying, nothing more, she told herself, happy with her reasoning. And there was no deeper meaning behind her still not breaking the contact; it was just a friendly hug, nothing more, and who didn't like a hug from time to time? So what if she liked sitting there next to him, it was only the heat he radiated she liked. Who didn't like the warmth? She shifted slightly into a more comfortable position that for some reason had her arm snake around him. Not bothering to worry about that oddity, she simply enjoyed being warmer and more at ease than she had in months. With each breath, she felt the tension leave her bit by bit, and soon, she had dozed off, snuggling closer to the equally sleeping Harry, not caring about improperly drooling over his pyjamas.
A bit of a quiet scene. A shame I had to drop the lines about Harry and Hermione having picked their tricks up on the fly, unlike normal Muggle children who learn it in school or on the streets.
